


Je suis d’or

by Nasyat



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Arts and Crafts club, M/M, Maxwell is a warm croissant, No Plot/Plotless, Prose Poem, Wilson is a sweet potato, carols, gold - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 06:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15989618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: “I am golden”. Word prompts: thunderstorm, autumn, freckles





	Je suis d’or

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of a story I wrote for my Aloe-dearest. I listened to Desenchantee by Mylene Farmer on repeat while writing, so I gave it a French title (which might as well be wrong — if that’s the case, I would really appreciate it if you corrected me! I was aiming for “I am (made) out of gold”, not sure if google translate got it right).  
> This short story doesn’t have much of a plot, but I hope you enjoy it for what it is, nonetheless.

Gold. Maxwell loved it once, loved to tremor in the greedy knees, to avaricious glimmer in the eyes. Like a hard-headed nephew would cater to his rich uncle, Maxwell ran around with his money. He had a beautifully decorated flat, he had a beautiful woman. But Charlie turned into a monster, and the flat... god knows what happened to the flat. Wilson, with his ever-knowing eyes and that stupid smile, said something about the birds. Something about crows destroying another’s nest, and magpies tearing off earlobes in their hanker for sparkling jewelry. Maxwell didn’t like that, so he said that Wilson had a lousy hut and greedy hands, not to mention his shack of a house, held together by spit alone. And his alchemy business? Good-for-nothing accommodation, good-for-nothing, useless job.

“What did you even live on?” he spat out in disdain, stirring the fire with a stick. “Feasted on rats, probably.”

Wilson rubbed his hands cunningly. “And even if I did, then what? Pass me the nugget, please.”

Alchemists don’t believe it when others say “you can’t”. What is gold out of lead for you, Wilson? A mean to climb out of this hole, disassemble the house to panels and move to San-Francisco? Something to let you rest on the laurels of honor and drink grapes, ascended to absolute? Alchemists believe it and say — I can. Look around, Wilson. Here you have the Golden-Gate-to-other-worlds bridge, here’s the alchemy engine with a vault. Here you have me, the Serpent Tempter, gotten out from misfortune. What’s not to live for?

_Wilson has the tips of his wet cowlicks shaking; they bristle, despite the rain. Maxwell wipes the other’s face — why? — and notices several freckles on his cheeks. Some barely noticeable spots of gold, a placer of constellations on the pale skin. Maxwell leans down and kisses them: if his sun can kiss Wilson, so can he._

Hot summer ended, and autumn began. Seasons change too soon, time flies like a blue bird, and the two survivors fly with it. The autumn brought thunderstorms, golden foliage and the earth, abounding with crops. Wilson loves sweet potatoes, he cuts them to slices, bakes in coals, boils, fries, if only doesn’t eat them raw. They both joke that the like consumes next of kin, and their laugh is so contagious that birds seem to start tweeting in unison.

Wilson makes Maxwell sing traditional songs from his childhood. “Weren’t you on the radio?” he says, chuckling, and “Shall we dance?” If that’s the pay for freedom, then the price is too damn high, thinks Maxwell, as he mumbles “Auld Lang Syne” amidst Indian summer, and Wilson lays his head on the other’s broad chest. The clearing is covered in leaves, the sky — bronze, it spreads like a dome over them. The scientist smiles, eyes closed, and slowly shuffles about the golden carpet, making Maxwell move along with him.

“It’s autumn,” says Maxwell, but presses the other’s hand in his. He looks down and sees Wilson’s lashes, softly laying on perfectly pale cheeks. “Ah, they faded…”

“The freckles? Kiss, maybe they’ll reappear,” answers Wilson jokingly. “Well, go on. ‘And there's a hand my trusty friend, and give me a hand o' thine…’”

They sway together like a giant pendulum, lingering in the amplitude of damped oscillations.

“I saw your performance,” says Wilson suddenly. “I was five, and had way more freckles back then…”

And:

“You have a golden voice. Can I sing with you?”

Autumn storms, cold storms, storms that break into rain and claps of thunder. Sometimes frogs fall down, a whole congregation of them, — they prove to be useful, as frogs are rather edible. Wilson did tar on the tent, but here again he sits in the dark and shakes from his puny chest to the tips of his hair, soaked wet, being too late to hide from the rain in their shared tent. Maxwell undresses him as if he were a child, kisses him in his wet eyebrows, covers with a body just as frail from Charlie and bad weather. The Queen plays with other captives of the Constant now, so she cares nothing for Mister Higgsbury and Maxy as of yet. Wilson reaches for the former illusionist with his lips, but lies still for the most part, letting him rub his skin dry…

The portal spits out three. Familiar faces are dressed weirdly, give their shared tent weird looks and cook surprisingly well. Miss Wickerbottom brushes the golden hair of Wendy, who is clothed in mourning, and writes recipes on the scraps of paper. Wes the Chimney Sweeper collects autumn leaves and does crafts out of vegetables alongside Wilson. The mime makes intricate animals and birds that look as if ready to soar; the scientist, on the other hand, spawns carrot homunculi, mutant eggplants and frightening scarecrows out of pumpkins.

“What’s this, an ‘Arts and Crafts’ club?” Asks Maxwell, examining Wes’ craftsmanship. And then takes a horsey on crooked leg-sticks, with a giraffe neck and eyes that are made out of peas, protruding: “I like this one.”

The autumn neared its end, so they’d assembled a stony shed for two. Soon, Wilson will make Maxwell sing Christmas carols again, and again they will have to wipe shivers off the white forearms, beat the laugh out of sunken chests and hide in each other from the howling blizzard.

“You have golden hands,” says Maxwell, sitting in front of a clayed stove. They bask in warmth side by side, and in the depths of the furnace mouth, under the brick arch, there’re sweet potatoes baking. Wilson melts into a smile.

“Thank you.”

They both loved gold once. Now they love something else — to tremor in the knees, to glimmer in the eyes. It has many names, many bright faces, and when Maxwell starts humming “O Tannebaum”, Wilson hugs his arm, drinking in the voice of eternity.

He is not scared at all.


End file.
